Sleeping With No Identity
by Nightsmoke
Summary: The immortal head of combat forces, part of I Prescelti Sette; the kid who laughed in the face of the Reaper. His name is Skull.
1. Chapter 1

All characters © Amano Akira

The immortal head of combat forces, part of _I Prescelti Sette;_ the kid who laughed in the face of the Reaper. His name is Skull.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sleeping With No Identity<strong>_

_You can be a king or a street sweeper,_  
><em>but everybody dances with the Grim Reaper.<em>  
><em>-Robert Alton Harris<em>

He imagined the sensation of his hair tickling his brow as the wind swept it back, the feeling of nothing at all under his feet, and he could almost forget completely that somebody was calling his name.

Well, almost.

Then that somebody called him by his _real_ name, and that was enough to snap Skull out of his reverie (which he shouldn't have been having in the first place). Don's offices were not exactly the ideal places to drift off, and Skull gave his new boss what he hoped was an endearing smile. "Y-yes, Boss?"

"You have your head in the clouds," the don of the Carcassa Famiglia frowned, twirling an unlit cigar slowly between his fingers. Some of the stray shreds fell onto the neatly burnished desk. Skull could never remember the guy's name—Don Marcolo, or Marcus, or something like that. One of the M's. Maybe it was Manicotti. That stuff was good, especially with cheese stuffing.

"I'm giving you the chance to redeem yourself here, Skull—you wish to be called Skull now, yes?" Skull gave a reluctant nod, all thoughts of pasta dissipating, and the don continued, "You can thank Colonello for recommending you despite your, ahem, record."

Skull's endearing smile tightened uncomfortably at the edges. It wasn't _his_ fault he got kicked out of COMSUBIN. They weren't even supposed to legally take kids under seventeen, let alone expect them not to get bored. CSUCS his ass. But, since nobody in the mafia really cared about that sort of thing anyway (they had their own underground _Scuolas Militares_ that began at age five, for linguine's sake), it continued unmentioned.

Colonello, who was five years his senior and head of the Arms section of the _Raggruppamento Centro Studi_, had thought that any kid with talent would also have an equally developed attention span. Skull almost guffawed, which would have been a bad idea giving his current position. For knowing Skull since elementary school, Colonello couldn't have been more wrong. And Skull, while he did enjoy the water to some extent, didn't really dig the whole human torpedo thing.

"According to the Subacquei, your skills were 'admirable, but not appropriate for COMSUBIN training,' " Don Marcolo or Marcus read from his reports, tactfully overlooking the numerous conduct demerits on the page. He fixed Skull with a pointed gaze. "Good talents should not go to waste, I believe."

"I appreciate you givin' me a second chance and all, but I don't wanna do any killing," Skull replied testily, fidgeting. "I don't like that kind of stuff. Just the stunt work, y'know?"

The world, in Skull's opinion, was going to the dogs. Dear sweet linguine, was it going to the dogs. Even at fourteen he knew this. Iran and Iraq were at each other's throats, the pope had been shot last spring, and Tylenol was killing people in America. Oh well. At least Italy had won the world cup. Murder would just pull Skull into the fray of insanity that was already swirling the globe, and he fancied killing even less than he did human torpedoes.

"Not to worry," Don Marcolo or Marcus smiled, "you won't be involved in extortion or assassination. If I've heard right, your strategic prowess will be more than enough."

And that was how Skull got the job as Carcassa's strategist, simple as that. On a side note, the name Carcassa was not to be confused with the Carcassi family, mind you, who had been some of the finest luthiers back in the eighteenth century. Skull doubted that instrument-making ranked high amongst mafia history.

Don Marcolo of Marcus or whatever the hell his name was stuck true to his word. Mostly. Skull assembled combat strategies, which he happened to excel in, and the best part was that Skull himself actually got to do most of the front-line work. And afterwards he could go to his quarters and listen to some Jimi Hendrix, PFM (or Jocula, if he was in the mood), or that new American band Metallica. So yeah, for a while things were pretty sweet.

The whole reason he got involved in the Italian mafia in the first place was for the stunts. You could call him an adrenaline junkie, but to Skull that just sounded dumb. He simply liked the freedom. Doing stunts was the one time he could actually be brave, and when he was in the air he was free of all earthly attachments...like a cloud, almost. Skull was in it for the fun. At first he ignored the corruption of the mafia, and intentionally turned a blind eye to the fact that the Carcassa Famiglia was not that big on moral codes and honor.

But Skull's a little older now. In spirit only, of course.

-.-

* * *

><p><em>End of chapter one. This is probably the first story I've written where I am intentionally breaking canon, and in more ways than one. It's implied that Skull joined the Carcassa Famiglia after the events at Mafia Land, but I feel like he would have had to be a lot younger and more foolish to join a family like that.<em>

_The title is a reference to Emily Brontë._


	2. Chapter 2

All characters © Amano Akira

The immortal head of combat forces, part of _I Prescelti Sette;_ the kid who laughed in the face of the Reaper. His name is Skull.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sleeping With No Identity<strong>_

_.**  
><strong>_

"It's only seventeen kilos," Lal remarked to a sweating Colonello. She rubbed the scar tissue on her cheek aggravatingly and adjusted his grip on the Breda M37.

" 'Only,' pah! You're supposed to mount these on sandbags," Colonello grunted. "Why the hell are the legs gone? This isn't a paintball gun, you know."

"Will you quit your whining?" Lal snapped. Her eyes, however, sparkled. "Use those muscles you always brag about. Here, prop the frame on your shoulder, like this..."

"Shit! It's going to fall!"

_"No_, it's not. Come on, a proper soldier should be able to lift at least half his weight."

"Goddamn this is Sparta," Colonello groaned as he blinked against the sweat running into his eye.

"Come on, Colonel. Lift it and I'll give you a Gatorade. Cherry flavored."

Once Colonello managed to somewhat balance the gun he set it down with a huff, rubbing his back. "Sheesh, woman," he muttered. He untied his bandanna and wiped his brow, a thought randomly coming to him as he did so. "By the way, I saw Skull the other day," he told Lal.

Lal, who had been disassembling the Breda, paused. She pretended to inspect the cartridges disinterestedly. "The kid?"

Colonello nodded. "He was on an errand run for the Carcassas. Looks a little skinny, if you ask me."

"Apparently he's got quite the team," Lal said. "He might even have the largest private combat army in Europe now."

These days everyone had heard of the kid. Sixteen, with two lip rings, a nose ring and a chain, and commander of over three thousand men. Unbelievable, if you never met the kid in person.

When mentioning this, Lal's tone had just the right amount of awe in it; it was a tone Colonello knew quite well. "Disapprove?" he grinned.

"It's not that," Lal replied, wiping down the barrel of the Breda. "The kid has talent, but putting a pubescent teen in charge of a military facility is never a good idea. I didn't get to take charge of COMSUBIN until I was twenty."

"Well it certainly looks like he's found his calling," Colonello announced proudly, since it _was_ he who had recommended the kid to the Carcassas two years ago, "even if he's a little baby-faced for the job. In fact, I'm glad you kicked him out of here. Although..." he thought for a moment, "he did look kind of lonely."

Lal snorted. "Lonely? He's got three thousand men in his army."

Colonello raised his blue eyes to meet her mauve ones. "Yeah, but do you think he knows even ten of their names?"

To this Lal said nothing.

-.-


	3. Chapter 3

All characters © Amano Akira

The immortal head of combat forces, part of _I Prescelti Sette;_ the kid who laughed in the face of the Reaper. His name is Skull.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sleeping With No Identity<strong>_

_.**  
><strong>_

Even Colonello hadn't fathomed the extent to which the Carcassa Famiglia was corrupted. If he had, like hell he would have asked them to hire Skull.

Skull had never been one for acting, which immediately disqualified him from any undercover, assassination, or, thankfully, deception-seduction work. Disguises rarely worked on him. Although he had never set any records for bodily piercings, Skull did look somewhat like a delinquent. He didn't mind, since it only furthered his reputation as a total badass.

What he _did_ mind was people taking one look at him and assuming him involved in the Carcassa's main trade: drug trafficking.

Cocaine, heroin, meth. Most of the stuff came from the Chinese triad via the Golden Triangle, made its way past the Middle East and into Italy's underground. The Carcassa were good at what they did, hence Interpol being entirely clueless apropos the whole Naples branch of the Black Market. Sure, the Costa Notra and the Camorra earned some hefty Euro in heroin, but that was nothing compared to what the Carcassa made. The only difference was the Carcassa chose to be more discreet about it, and their mortality rate remained pleasurably low. It also estranged them from the other mafia groups around Italy, as their methods were not deemed honorable even by Italian standards.

Luckily, Skull did not have to witness this firsthand; only second. Like buying a ratty jean jacket from a yard sale.

The drugs he could handle, for the most part. Most of what he did called for him on the military field, so rarely was he sent on a drug bagging. On occasion he was made to deliver something here or there, but he was thankfully never directly involved in the market. Fine. What Skull _couldn't_ handle was the other stuff. The Carcassa Famiglia was notorious for their "deplorable activities," which Skull now knew to be torture. The Vongola's "Demon" Varia had nothing on these guys. Extortion in the Carcassa was based on medieval methods, including medieval instruments (which Skull hadn't a clue on how the mafia managed to procure in the first place).

Without elaborating, let's just say just the stories themselves acquainted Skull with his lavatorial chambers, where he would repeatedly retch until the idea left his body completely. Motorcycle freestyle at 120 mph? Fine. Scaphism on a twenty year old girl? Not okay.

But essentially, Skull realized, he could avoid the horrors by doing what it was he did best. Having a combat army of a few thousand men was enough to keep anyone busy. It was also where he could cultivate his ideal reputation as the "Skull from Hell," as he was becoming better known as these days. No need to listen to the assassins' brag-stories and visceral tales of glory.

"You mean you actually want to?" one recruit had asked him the other day, as they stood at the edge of the east cliff facing Lake Capra. The guy wasn't much older than Skull himself—mid twenties at least. His blue eyes reminded Skull of Colonello.

Skull shrugged. "Sure," he said. "The drop isn't that far down and there aren't any rocks to impale ya."

The recruit jutted his lip out resignedly. "W-well, I can have Lt. Renato get you a cord, if you really want to—"

"No need."

The recruit blinked rapidly "Excuse me?"

"For this kind of thing, I don't need anything," Skull had replied then, closing his eyes and smelling the water in the breeze.

The recruit blinked some more; after seeing that Skull was dead serious he shook his head. "If I may be so bold, Sir, I think you have a problem," he said tiredly. The kid must think he's Jackie Chan or some shit. Digging his own grave with air and wind and fast-moving machines.

"Why do you do these crazy things anyway?"

Skull tested the ground and flexed his legs as he responded, "Almost met the reaper as a kid. Ever since, I've needed the rush." It was half-true.

"Let's hope the Reaper doesn't find you today," the recruit responded, casting a skeptical glance to the dark blue waves below. They looked very cold. A little hungry for boymeat, perhaps? Maybe today, maybe not.

"I doubt it. Fellow doesn't like me much," Skull laughed. "Every time I try to meet him, he runs away!"

The young recruit watched as Skull bent his knees. Somehow, thanks to some crazy god or wacky force up there sympathetic to quasi-goth teens, the kid always turned out okay. Or maybe the kid was right, and the reaper really did hate him.

When the recruit looked up, Skull was gone. He shook his head as high-pitched laughter echoed up from the edge of the cliff, making the chats on the nearby trees take flight with a flurry of twitters.

"...He really jumped..."

-.-


	4. Chapter 4

All characters © Amano Akira

The immortal head of combat forces, part of _I Prescelti Sette;_ the kid who laughed in the face of the Reaper. His name is Skull.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Sleeping With No Identity<strong>_

_.**  
><strong>_

Something crazy, that no normal human would do.

There were brains under that skull, even if Skull himself did not want to admit it. He was an excellent strategist, which in turn made him a superb chess player. He didn't really care for what he called "mamby pamby" stuff; sitting in the park quietly playing a game like the old folk seemed like a fate worse than death. Yet, he found himself drawn to the game because it called to think ahead. Like planning a raid.

In all of history, there has only been one person able to match him at chess. A curlicued bastard who never gave his name not once, a handsome but sadly paranoid fellow who Skull eventually looked up to once they had been cursed.

While it was true that "Reborn," as he called himself after his second birth as an _Arcobaleno,_ had gone into exile after the curse, he had also gotten a few visits from yours truly. Of course, finding people who didn't want to be found could be damn tricky. The world was a big place, even if it was slowly becoming a dog's pen.

With the mostly illegal resources of Verde (who was an even bigger ass than Reborn), Skull had eventually tracked Reborn to the Hindu Kush, to some obscure place on the Kabul River that took a ridiculous amount of effort, time and crumpled maps to reach. And all for a game of chess, can you believe that happy crappy?

No, Skull supposed it wasn't just for the chess. Reborn had a...power. It was like Colonello's, but different. They were the Sun and the Rain. The Cloud bore the rain, and the Sun illuminated it from above.

Ultimately, Reborn hadn't been too surprised to see him one October morning. "Pomegranate?" he offered mildly, as if Skull turning up was an everyday and (infuriatingly) expected occurrence. From there they got to talking and drinking goat's milk, which was surprising giving that Reborn's addiction to coffee was a promulgated fact amongst the Arcobaleno.

"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time," Skull recited on one occasion. The two of them were in middlegame and had their bare feet comfortably tangled in a Persian lamb coat. Skull was happy. In the beginning, before the curse, there had been the initial frustration of being looked down upon by the others. Then, once Skull had calmed and had found his center, he realized that the only times Reborn actually treated him as an equal were in chess. So yeah, maybe Skull _had_ come all this way to play a game.

Reborn looked thoughtful as he twirled a black pawn. "Mark Twain?"

"You would know, of course," Skull scoffed. It had gotten so the two of them could talk and strategize simultaneously now. "And by the way, what the hell's with this writing? Arabic?" he gestured to the chess board.

"Dari."

"You speak that too now, huh?"

"Of course. As for the board, the good doctor gave it to me," Reborn replied, eyes skimming the spaces on the board. "Shamal does have style, despite his annoyances." Skull had no idea who the "good doctor" was, but he had to admit the board was pretty nice.

A green veiled chameleon lazily nestled in the rim of Reborn's fedora, which had been discarded on the rug next to him some time ago. Skull had the unfortunate pleasure of sitting on it when he first arrived, for which Reborn had given him a roundhouse kick ("You like him?" Reborn had asked once Skull had recovered. "I got him in Yemen. Don't know what to call him yet...")

Skull casually executed another _en passant._ "People expect you to be predictable," he told Reborn. The game went on for a while; neither of them noticed the brilliant sun dog on the horizon as night slowly crept in.

"People are predictable," Reborn said sometime later. "It's their nature. I can't read minds, contrary to Miss Mirch's amusing outbursts. I merely predict."

"Exactly! Which is why ya have to do something to catch them off guard. Something crazy, that no normal human would do."

Reborn grinned. "...like this?"

Skull gaped as he watched a pudgy hand shoot out and claim his queen in a move that would have put Stamma's mate to shame. Dear sweet linguine, how did he not see that?

"God _dammit!"_

-.-


End file.
